The Other Occupant

by Peter Benson

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It never was.’

  We moved two chairs together so we could kiss. She wrapped her arms around my neck. She smelt of cow shit, but that’s a pleasant, flowery smell, like hay.

  She had to leave at half past ten because she was milking in the morning.

  ‘What time?’ I said.

  ‘Seven. You going to be there?’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got to—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘I’ve got to do a load of things before I fetch Marjorie.’ I showed her the list.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be in trouble if I leave anything.’

  ‘She wouldn’t mind if you—’

  ‘She would,’ I said. ‘And so would I.’ I put the list in my pocket. ‘I can be very responsible if I have to be.’

  We kissed on the doorstep and she said she’d be in the pub the next evening.

  ‘You up there every evening?’ I said.

  ‘Most, yes.’

  ‌8

  Finish digging

  Chop and stack wood

  I did the wood first. Once I was into the rhythm of chopping I enjoyed the work. It was cold out, but I was soon warm. A stiff wind blew through the trees; the air was full of the sound of bending and whipping branches.

  I could taste Sadie as I chopped, but thinking about her didn’t stop me working. I barrowed four loads to the shed. Before I left for Dorchester, I stoked the Rayburn, fed the cats, tidied the kitchen and phoned Colonel Franklyn.

  When he answered, he barked, ‘Franklyn!’ like he was shouting at himself.

  I said, ‘Colonel - this is Greg.’

  ‘Greg? I don’t know any Greg. Who are you?’

  ‘Marjorie’s bloke.’

  ‘Marjorie’s bloke?’ He said this as if it tasted bad, but couldn’t resist saying it again. ‘Bloke?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel. At the lodge. We met the other day. You were playing cards—’

  ‘Oh!’ he yelled. I held the earpiece at arm’s length. ‘Marjorie! Of course! I got cleaned out!’ I heard him sucking his pipe. ‘How is the old girl? She’s—’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s in hospital,’ I said. ‘She’s broken her arm.’

  ‘Good God! Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She fell over in the kitchen. It was stupid…’ I’m just off to collect her now.’

  ‘Good for you! Splendid. Between you and me…’ he lowered his voice, so I only had to hold the phone a foot away, ‘…it’s high time she had a batman.’

  ‘I’m more of a Robin,’ I said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Robin? Batman?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t follow.’

  I excused him, and said that I was late already. ‘That won’t do!’ he yelled, and told me to get a move on.

  A nurse intercepted me on the way to Marjorie’s room.

  ‘Mr Thompson?’ She put her hand on my arm.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dr Rice would like a word with you. Could you wait in there?’ She pointed to an office. ‘I’ll fetch him.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I think Dr Rice should tell you.’

  ‘OK.’

  I sat in the office and tried to work out a shift rota graph. The green columns were getting the better of it in March, but the blues had the edge in April. ‘Mr Thompson?’ Dr Rice wore glasses and hadn’t shaved. He didn’t smile.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I ask you…’ are you a relative?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is your relationship to Miss Calder?’

  ‘I’m just a friend of a friend. I’ve been working for her - chopping logs, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you know if she has any living relatives?’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything about any.’

  ‘I see…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well…’ Dr Rice rubbed his chin.

  ‘Yes?’ I said.

  They had run some tests on Marjorie.

  ‘She’s a remarkable woman,’ he said. ‘Quite a handful for the nursing staff too.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Well.’ Dr Rice coughed. ‘It’s serious. Can I ask you if you’ve noticed—’

  ‘I’ve only known her a couple of weeks,’ I said, ‘but for an eighty-two-year-old she’s—’

  ‘She’s got cancer.’

  ‘Cancer?’

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s pancreatic, and it’s spread to the duodenum.’ He took his glasses off and put them in his top pocket with a perfect, automatic action.

  ‘No…’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ He coughed softly. ‘Frankly, I was appalled she hadn’t been referred before, but…’ he tapped a sheaf of notes, ‘…the last time she saw her GP was in 1986. Dr Thubron.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her GP.’ He looked over my shoulder for a moment, and then back at me. ‘I’m afraid it’s well advanced. I’m amazed she’s carried on like this for so long without complaining, but as soon as I saw the blister on her eye I suspected. You’d noticed it? On her eye.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I did.’

  ‘It’s a classic symptom,’ he said, like it was a car.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so…’

  I hardly knew Marjorie, but this kicked me in. I didn’t want her to shrink, need a wheelchair, only eat baby food and die in bed. ‘How long’s she got?’

  ‘Difficult to say…’

  ‘Try.’

  He coughed again. ‘A month - three, if she’s lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Dr Rice had told this news dozens of times, but it never got any easier, only more like a cliché. That worried him.

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘Not yet. We want to run a few more tests - she’ll have to stay in another night. We’ve told her that.’

  ‘Don’t you know enough already?’

  ‘Yes, but…’ He stalled. He didn’t want to make a mistake.

  ‘OK,’ I said, and went to see her.

  She was sitting up in bed, reading. She didn’t look ill, only angry. Her face was still like a moon. When she saw me, she shook her head, put down her book and said, ‘Another night. If I’m not careful they’ll make me move in, and the next thing I’ll know is I’m going out feet first. Except I wouldn’t know that, would I?’ She laughed at her joke. I couldn’t. ‘Did you keep the Rayburn in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the cats?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And you didn’t race the Alfa?’

  I shook my head. I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes, and a weakness in my legs. I sat on the edge of her bed, but I couldn’t look at her or say anything.

  I was angry by the time I left her and was driving over the switchbacks. I was angry at the lanes to the lodge. No one deserved death by pain and shrinking, and her having cancer killed my idea that thinking about the guest inevitably led to you asking him to the party. Marjorie had slept on the ground in Australia, with deadly spiders rattling across her chest, but never been bitten. In the Congo, she had climbed a tree with some natives to escape a lioness. They’d aggravated the animal by smelling appetising. They had to stay in the tree for six hours, until a herd of antelope passed.

  I was angry at the countryside, and the pretty cottages I passed. Nobody could convince me that they were worth it. I hated hedges and the twists in the road. I wanted to leave. I hated glimpses of sheep through gates, and the interesting hill forts that dominated the landscape. The sun was out, but I didn’t enjoy it. When I reached the forest and accelerated into the trees, I hated the shade, and the strict way the sitkas had been planted. I wasn’t interested in forest wildlif
e, and took no notice of warning road signs. Only the Alfa soothed me, and the feeling that I was safe in it. It was a beautiful car.

  A mile from the lodge I shot round a bend and came face to face with a blue tractor. It was fifty yards from me when I first saw it - I was going too fast but I managed to stop in a straight line, six feet from it.

  I wasn’t reversing. I could see a pull-in behind the tractor, and edged towards it.

  I honked my horn and waved. I revved. After an unnecessary wait, the tractor began to reverse.

  ‘You took your bloody time!’ I yelled as we drew level.

  Nicky stuck his head out of the tractor cab and said, ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah!’ I screamed.

  Nicky laughed and pointed at the car. ‘Bit of a handful for you, is it?’

  ‘No more than I’m used to.’

  He laughed again.

  I would have got out and kicked him, but Marjorie’s cats needed feeding, and it was getting dark. I hated the smell of his tractor. I gave him two fingers and accelerated away. He had small piggy eyes, and bad teeth. When I looked in my rear view mirror, I could see the tractor backing into the forest.

  Dad died of lung cancer, and Mum of cancer of the throat; the disease was a rain in my life. I had been around both of them as they shrank: Mum took it as read and faded very quickly, but Dad refused to be beaten. Marjorie would refuse to be beaten. I spent the evening in a frenzy, making sure everything was in its place for her return. I washed the kitchen floor, vacuumed in the hall, up the stairs and along the landing. I was checking the larder for food when someone knocked on the door. It was Sadie.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m very busy.’ I had a broom in my hand. ‘But come in if you want.’

  She did. She stood in the kitchen. I offered her a seat, but she didn’t take it. She had never seen a man cleaning a house before, and I could tell that she wanted a drink, but when I explained about Marjorie, she backed off.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m fetching her tomorrow.’

  ‘Did you see her today?’

  ‘Yes. She doesn’t know yet.’

  We stood looking at each other in silence. The Rayburn was well stoked, but the kitchen felt cold. She said she was going. As we stood on the step, I said, ‘I think I upset your boyfriend today.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Nicky. I made him back his tractor up. He—’

  ‘It’s about time someone made him back his tractor up,’ she said.

  ‌9

  Before I left the lodge to collect Marjorie from hospital I checked that everything was in its right place. Rayburn stoked - logs - cats - washing-up.

  The house felt like home to me, and the time I’d spent in it on my own made me feel a belonging. It was a beautiful morning - blue skies, a few white clouds and snowdrops in the hedges.

  I stopped at a garage and put the Alfa through a car-wash. When it was done, I parked it on the forecourt and checked for damage. One of the number plates was bent, but I straightened it with my boot.

  Although I drove Dad to Kent and propped him in hay barns, Mum did the nursing. I qualified as a nurse when she felt an occupant in her throat, and described a burning in her mouth that made her gag and dribble.

  ‘Look at me!’ she slurred. ‘I’m a baby again! Look!’ I had to feed her, but she couldn’t chew, so I learnt to use a liquidiser. Bruce didn’t understand the change in her. I had to take him for walks, and keep him away from wheels.

  He had a thing about wheels - Mum had never been strict with him - so when we passed a pushchair or shopping trolley, he went mad. Once, I let him off the lead in a park, and he chased some kids on roller skates. I had to run after all of them, but couldn’t shout at him because I saw Mum reflected in his eyes. She wanted him to do the things she’d never been able to do. I always told her he behaved perfectly, and was very sensible in traffic.

  She faded quickly and became very quiet, except for the last day, when she began to tell me the story of her life. She was full of memories, most of which I’d heard before, but some new ones. When she reached the end of the story, she died.

  Marjorie was dressed and waiting for me in the hospital reception. She said, ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Driving carefully.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, recognising the perfect answer - and a little of herself in me.

  ‘Marjorie?’ I said. I could see the sculptor still at it. He was cutting a stone with a high-powered electric saw. A plume of dust rose into the air.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

  We were driving over a beautiful hump in the countryside when she turned to me and said, ‘Gregory?’

  ‘What?’ I kept my eyes on the road.

  ‘He told you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dr Rice.’

  ‘He did say some—’

  ‘It was wonderful!’ she said. ‘I got one over on them! He came in to tell me - I could tell. He had this serious face, different from the “serious but you’ll get better eventually” face. It was the deadly serious one. You know what I mean?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t a nurse for nothing. He was winding up to break the news, but I put him out of his misery.’

  ‘His misery?’

  ‘Poor man…’

  ‘Marjorie?’

  ‘It’s the other occupant.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Cancer! In my gut!’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, steering carefully. I appreciated the power assistance.

  ‘But like I’ve always said…’ she said.

  ‘What’s that, Marjorie?’

  She turned away and looked at the scenery, then said, ‘You take it as it comes.’

  The woman loved me for keeping the lodge warm and tidy, and picked each cat up individually and kissed it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t go that far.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said, and kissed me.

  I wanted to cry. I pulled myself together. I had to support her. ‘Support’ is an old word given new meaning. I said it in my head. Marjorie sat by the Rayburn and said, ‘It’s wonderful to be home.’ Her hair wasn’t brushed, and stuck out as if she’d been plugged in. The kettle rumbled on top of the Rayburn, so I washed some cups and started to make tea.

  ‘Nothing like a cup of tea,’ I said.

  ‘There isn’t, is there?’ she said, reaching for a bottle of whisky. ‘Do you mix your drinks?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ I said.

  ‘Then take that off,’ she pointed to the kettle, ‘and get some glasses.’

  I was lying in bed with the lights out when I heard a noise I didn’t recognise. I was used to coughing sheep, crying owls and whipping trees - this was different.

  It came from the room beneath me - scratching - I listened to it for a while, trying to work out what it was. There were no trees or bushes close enough to the house to scrape against the downstairs windows - the night was solid, and the lack of other noises accentuated the scratching. When I sat up and the bed squeaked, it stopped, and all I could hear was the faint buzz of silence and an occasional hoot from the forest.

  I sat up for a couple of minutes until it started again. It hadn’t moved across the room, it was coming from exactly the same spot - directly beneath my bed. I don’t believe in ghosts. I got out of bed, and put on a dressing gown Marjorie had lent me. It was tartan, and warm.

  Marjorie hadn’t lent me any slippers. The lodge was freezing. I put the landing light on. The scratching stopped. I stood at the top of the stairs and looked down. Marjorie used dim bulbs. The scratching started again.

  I went down the stairs very slowly. At the bottom, I found a walking stick and armed myself with it. The noise had become more insistent. Suddenly, joining it, an owl yelled outside.

  I wasn’t nervous, but I was curious. I’d been in unusual and dangerous situa
tions before - I didn’t recall any of them at that moment. I opened the front room door, pushed it wide and stood on the threshold. A wall of cold air blew out of the room. The scratching stopped. I waited.

  The room was dark and freezing. Nothing moved.

  I advanced. I held the walking stick up and felt for the light switch. I flicked it.

  The light didn’t come on. I squinted into the darkness and stuck the stick out in front of me.

  I moved forward. The curtains were open. Slowly my eyes got used to the light; I made out the shapes of the armchairs, an occasional table and a bookcase. My breath made light, puffy clouds; I could hear my heart beating, and feel blood rushing into my head.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I said, feebly.

  No answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  Through the window, the forest was a dark featureless wall. I couldn’t make out the shapes of individual trees, or see any light between trunks.

  I said, ‘Who’s there?’ again and lowered the stick, and as I did, suddenly, there was a crash from the other side of the room, and a dark shape shot towards me, darted between my legs and ran into the hall.

  I heard Marjorie call, ‘Gregory? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, weakly. She was at the top of the stairs looking down.

  ‘What’s going on? I heard a noise.’

  ‘One of the cats was in the front room.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The black one.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Fred.’ I put the walking stick back.

  ‘Fred - he’s a little devil.’

  ‘He scared the life out of me,’ I said, and regretted it immediately.

  ‘You want a drink?’ She came down the stairs.

  ‘I don’t know. Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘No. This…’ she tapped her plastered arm, ‘… is ridiculous. I’ll be dead before spring but I’ve got to heal this first.’ She came down the stairs, shaking her head.

  ‘Marjorie! Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘I won’t fool myself,’ she said, heading for the kitchen, ‘so don’t you try.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Just don’t.’

  Dr Rice had offered Marjorie therapy on one hand and told her on the other that only one per cent of pancreatic cancer sufferers survive. She’d insisted on the facts. He said tumours had to be caught early; she was too far gone. Her cancer had eaten all it needed of her.